


Smashup

by celinamarniss



Series: Triumvirate [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, Imperial AU (Star Wars), Multi, arihnda and eli being competent and supportive in the background, other warnings from the triumvirate series apply, physical injury, thrawn is good at politics actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28291440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celinamarniss/pseuds/celinamarniss
Summary: Luke’s Defender began to drop—down, down, down toward the ground. Thrawn watched the Defender’s descent, desperate for some sign that Luke had survived the impact—anything that might indicate that Luke was still conscious, fighting to regain control of his ship—but the ship plummeted like a stone.Disaster strikes at the first public demonstration of Thrawn’s new line of TIE Defenders.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Mara Jade/Luke Skywalker, Mara Jade/Luke Skywalker/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Mara Jade/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo
Series: Triumvirate [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1494842
Comments: 17
Kudos: 23





	Smashup

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always to JediMordSith and evilmouse for their support and beta. 
> 
> The amazing stories that evilmouse and JediMordSith have written for the Triumvirate universe are AUs of this series and take place in a different timeline than this one. Therefore, Arihnda is not a part of the polycule in this story. 

Crimson banners snapped in the breeze over the Sartinaynian City racecourse, the rippling fabric bright against the glass-blue sky. The arena had been built at the edge of the city, a long black strip of tarmac bracketed by rows of stadium seats that rose for a dozen stories above the ground. Like many racecourses built for swoop racing, the arena was open on either end, the track disappearing into the distance as it looped through the rocky terrain on the city’s outskirts. Floating holoscreens scattered throughout the stands allowed the spectators to follow the race as soon as it had left the arena. 

A long observation deck hovered on repulsorlifts above the stadium, allowing a select audience of Moffs and their respective retinues to observe the day’s demonstrations without being forced to mingle with their inferiors. The tiered seats below were filled with crewmen from the _Chimaera_ and local members of the Imperial military that worked on bases and stations throughout Sartinaynian City, as well as high-ranking Sartinaynian officials who managed to procure tickets. 

Three Grand Moffs were present at the demonstration. Weblin and Gann, surrounded by sycophants and assistants, had little influence in the Imperial military—Grand Moff Tarkin was the only observer whose opinion was of any strategic value. Tarkin had a sharp eye and his word held weight with the Emperor; projects lived or died on his judgement. 

Thrawn stood on the observation deck near Tarkin, Mara at his side, hand tucked into his elbow. A few of the lower officers had brought their mistresses, dressed in bright dresses with plunging necklines. Mara’s comparatively conservative outfit sent the message that she wasn’t some common officer’s companion—she was _expensive._

A sleeveless white halter blouse—constructed from layers of finely woven retai fabric—wrapped snug around her torso, tucked into a high-waisted black skirt that swirled around her ankles. Tasteful gold jewelry glinted on her fingers and at her ears. Her hair was swept up, locks curled into an elaborate structure of loops pinned at the back of her head. The scent she wore suggested the crisp and delicate fragrance of crystal ferns, her makeup artfully understated except for the striking red of her lips. 

“Purely decorative,” she had called her role that morning. 

He had gently tipped up her chin with a forefinger. “You are my eyes and ears,” he had reminded her. “Looking where I cannot.” 

She’d smiled then, all smug satisfaction and pleasure at her place by his side. Now her face was fixed in a politely blank mask, her gaze on the racetrack below. 

Six TIE pilots, led by Commander Fel, marched out onto the track. The pilots were already suited up, their helmets turning them into featureless, identical black figures. It was impossible to tell which one of the pilots was Luke. Mara leaned forward almost imperceptibly nonetheless, watching the pilots board the TIEs parked in a neat row on the tarmac. 

This was the first public showcase of the TIE Defender line, an experimental design developed by Thrawn’s starfighter initiative and flown by Fel’s elite Saber squadron. Three aurek-shaped wing panels framed the spherical cockpit, a departure from straight parallel lines of the classic TIE model. A fully-armed TIE Defender carried heavy laser cannons and concussion missiles, and would be fitted with a hyperdrive and deflector shields, but all those features had been stripped away to ensure that the ships wouldn’t appear sluggish for the sake of the demonstration. 

Mara’s fingers flexed against his arm as the Defenders lifted into the air in unison and screamed off along the racecourse to a roar of approval from the stands below. As the TIEs disappeared into the distance, the observers on the deck turned to watch the action on a set of holoscreens hovering at strategic points. The holo tracked the Defenders as they flew the course that wound through the rocky wastes beyond the city, each Defender labeled with the pilot’s name to allow the spectators to follow the race. 

As they watched the TIEs tear across the barren landscape, Luke pulled effortlessly to the front of the squadron. A murmur of excitement rippled through the spectators. Despite the fact that this particular race was only a demonstration, Thrawn suspected that money had been exchanged in illicit, hastily organized betting pools. He wondered how many people had placed money on the prince of Naboo—untested in battle and unknown outside of the _Chimaera_. 

Luke’s Defender came roaring back into the stadium at the head of the squadron minutes later. Instead of slowing as the TIE crossed the arena, Luke executed a hairpin turn and his fighter shot straight into the sky, rolling into a series of breathtaking spirals. The crowd cheered, the trick drawing scattered applause from the observation deck. The other TIEs broke formation, spooling off to perform similar stunt maneuvers in the air above the arena. A spark of pride fired in Thrawn’s chest as Luke’s Defender dropped into a daredevil dive and then swooped down to weave around the other, slower TIEs. TIE Defenders were heavy artillery, not meant for nimble acrobatics, but Luke made his ship dance through the air. 

“So the boy is as talented a pilot as his father claims,” Tarkin mused. “I admit, I never thought much of Amidala and Vader’s son.” He sniffed, raising an eyebrow. “Or of the Emperor's vapid little courtesan, for that matter.” 

Thrawn spent a long moment imagining the sound of the vertebrae in Tarkin’s neck snapping under his hands. Or perhaps he would start with the other man’s fingers, one by one, drawing out the pain before he ended the other man’s life. 

Mara didn’t react to the insult at all, her gaze fixed on the track below. She knew what the Imperial military thought of her. She was aware that the admirals, the officers—even the stormtroopers—whispered about her in empty corridors, out of the range of recording devices. The Admiral’s plaything, a _dancer—you know what that means, don’t you?_

Nothing but an empty-headed bit of fluff. _They had no idea._

“The Emperor knew the value of the gifts he gave me,” Thrawn said, keeping his voice and expression neutral. “It was a great honor to accept his favor.” That the Emperor had valued him highly enough to reward him with such lavish gifts—chosen _him_ above all others—was implicit under the bland tone. 

“Indeed,” Tarkin said, without looking away from the TIEs darting back and forth across the arena. 

Tarkin could sneer all he liked—Thrawn knew _exactly_ what he had gained when Palpatine had gifted him his companions. Struck by the impulse to flaunt his privileges, Thrawn drew Mara close and turned her face up so that he could kiss it. She responded warmly, the image of compliant adoration, as though the kiss were more than simply a performance. 

He knew that this display was an emotional response to Tarkin’s jibe, a possible miscalculation—and for a moment, he regretted giving in—but he had every _right_ to show off his gifts. He’d _earned_ his privileges, hadn’t he? 

Mara stiffened, breaking the kiss. Her eyes went wide and she jerked her head back toward the arena. He followed the direction of her gaze to one of the Defenders—Saber Four, who had lagged at the back of the squadron during the race. Saber Four was in the middle of a high arc that curved above the stadium. There was a sudden bright flash at the joint where the Defender’s pylons met the wings and the TIE careened out of control, sparks pinwheeling from the pylon as the ship went into free fall. 

The jovial rumble of the crowd gave way to shouts and screams. The pylon snapped as the ship fell, the wing shearing through the air. The other Defenders scattered as Saber Four’s cockpit exploded, swerving to avoid the rain of shrapnel. 

Saber Four’s severed wing corkscrewed through the sky. It smashed into Luke’s Defender, the top wing of his ship crumpling under the force of the blow. Luke’s Defender began to drop—down, down, down toward the ground. Thrawn watched the Defender’s descent, desperate for some sign that Luke had survived the impact—anything that might indicate that Luke was still conscious, fighting to regain control of his ship—but the ship plummeted like a stone. 

The Defender hit the track and skidded across the racecourse in a shower of sparks, finally plowing into the ground, wings half-buried in the tarmac. A fuel tank blew, fire engulfing the round sphere of the cockpit in flames. 

Shock threatened to take hold and Thrawn fought against its grip. It felt like all the ice of Csilla had settled in his gut. The shield generators had been removed from the Defenders on his orders. He’d _known_ that something like this could happen—and he’d dismissed the risk in favor of impressing Tarkin. Luke’s death rested on his shoulders. 

Before he could berate himself further, Mara twisted out of his arms and threw herself forward. She bolted for the edge of the deck, as if she meant to fling herself over the side into the stands below, heedless of the drop and the many meters of distance to the ground. Eli caught her before she could get near the edge, dragging her bodily back. She shrieked with rage, flailing against him as she tried to fight free. 

Thrawn clamped down on the urge to cross the deck and pull her out of Eli’s arms and into his own. He couldn’t go to her—couldn’t look down at the flames licking over the mangled wreck of the Defender below. 

Self-control was paramount. Keep calm; assess the situation. Take control. Tarkin was watching. Waiting for him to slip. 

He could grieve later. 

Locking his clenched hands behind his back, Thawn turned away from the scene Mara was making on the other side of the deck. “Tell Commander Fel to bring in the Defenders,” he ordered. “Every single ship needs to be checked for equipment failure.”

Behind him, one of his officers scrambled to follow his command. Standing off to the side, Arihnda was speaking rapidly into a comm. 

“Are the Interceptors ready to fly?” 

“I’m contacting them now, sir,” Commander Hammerly said. “Shouldn’t take too long.”

“Good. Get them in the air.” 

The next set of staged flights would distract the restless audience, watching the TIE burn and coming to their own conclusions as to the efficacy of the Defender line. It would buy them time to remove the evidence of the wreck from the racecourse. 

“Cut all recording feeds and confiscate any holos of the accident.” 

“Yessir.” 

Then, once he was assured that his orders were being followed: “Bring the deck down to the racetrack. I would like to observe the accident and confirm the condition of the pilot.” _His property,_ he let the detached tone of his voice convey. Worth as much to him as any other soldier under his command, and worth less than a private yacht, or perhaps a prized pet. 

A sharp scream cut off his next line of thought, and this time he couldn’t help but turn back and look at Mara. While he had been taking control of the situation, one of the bodyguards patrolling the deck had approached with the intention of helping Eli restrain her. One large hand was wrapped around her wrist, and when he caught hold of her other wrist she cried out again, as if his touch burned her skin. 

“Let go of her,” he snapped at the bodyguard. The other man dropped her wrists and backed away. 

She finally stopped thrashing against Eli’s arms as Thrawn approached, her face streaked with tears, makeup reduced to dark smudges under her eyes. 

“Pain—so much pain,” she whimpered softly. 

Pain— _Luke’s pain—she was feeling Luke’s pain._

Luke was still alive. Thrawn just barely kept himself from wrenching his head around to stare at the wreck on the track below. _Luke was alive._

Luke was alive—but for how long? How long until he succumbed to his injuries, trapped inside the crumpled cockpit of his Defender? He was alive _—alive—_ but in so much pain it had driven Mara into a frenzy. 

_Fuck._ The crude expletive seared through his head in a language that was not his own. 

“Cssin's to von'ehn,” he said. _Cut the connection._

 _“No.”_ She spat out the word, eyes narrowed to furious slits. 

Thrawn understood. She would never cut her last connection to Luke, no matter how much it hurt. If they had been on his ship, he would have kissed her and praised her for her defiance. 

“Nan'ei nah tuzir k'ir sir ten. _Nan'ei.”_ There was no one near enough to hear the way his voice cracked with emotion, no one save Mara and Eli who could understand him say: _there’s nothing we can do for him. Nothing._

“Vun'csut, ch’eo bun’is,” he said quietly. _Control yourself, my gift._

She stilled, responding to the tone of command in his voice. Dropping her eyes, she nodded, taking a slow, shaky breath. 

_Good._

He was aware of how many eyes were on them, observing him as he reprimanded his companion. Several of the officers and two of the Moffs had stopped watching the burning wreck of Luke’s TIE—growing closer and closer as the observation deck glided down toward the arena floor—to gape at Mara’s hysterics. 

Eli eased his grip on her, an arm still wrapped loosely around her waist, more of a support than a restraint. There was a bruise forming on his jaw and a set of vivid red lines across his cheek where Mara had scratched him. 

While Thrawn was grateful that Eli had been there to keep her from doing harm to herself, another part of him seethed at being forced to stand back as someone else held her. _He_ should be the one holding her, whispering hollow reassurances into her ear. 

He couldn’t afford that sort of intimacy, not in front of Tarkin—even if it was what Mara needed most. He’d already given too much away when he’d kissed her on the deck. 

“Sir?” Commander Hammerly called. 

Thrawn gave Eli a nod before turning back to his officers. 

“The Interceptors are ready to fly, sir.” 

“Send them up.” 

“Yessir.” 

The roar of the TIE Interceptors’ exhausts firing filled the arena, drowning out the agitated murmur of the crowd in the stadium. The observation deck had nearly reached ground level when the Interceptors took to the air, their engines deafening as they streaked overhead. 

A flash of white caught Thrawn’s eye and he turned just in time to see Mara finally tear free of Eli’s grasp. Eli staggered, trying and failing to catch hold of her again. She leapt off the edge of the deck—only a few meters from the ground now—and landed in a crouch on the tarmac. Before anyone could make a move to stop her, she was on her feet again, racing toward the wreck of Luke’s Defender. 

“A volatile little thing, isn’t she?” Tarkin drawled, distaste clear in his voice.

“She’s distraught,” Thrawn said tightly. “This is not a common occurrence, I assure you.” 

“Hmm,” Tarkin said. “Such an inconvenience. I do wonder if companions are really worth the trouble.” 

The deck touched down with a slight shudder some distance from the site of the crash. The ground between the deck and the Defender was littered with jagged fragments from the exploded TIE, some still molten and scorching. A plume of smoke billowed out of the smoldering wreck, black against the blue of the sky. 

The body of the Defender was swarming with droids from the racecourse pit crew, smothering the last of the flames with a spray of fire-extinguishing chemicals. A shower of sparks arced through the air as one of the droids took an acetylene torch to the sealed hatch on the top of the cockpit. A medical team stood by with a stretcher. 

Thrawn waited until the deck had settled flat on the tarmac before stepping off the edge and walking toward the wreck at a steady pace. The measured stride of a commander arriving to oversee a disaster. It was his responsibility to provide direction in a calm, controlled manner. 

The chief droid from the pit crew loped up on long, spindly metal legs. “Report,” Thrawn ordered the droid, though he paid little attention as the droid spooled off an analysis of the wreck. 

The sealed hatch came away with a screech, the irregular oval of metal tumbling to the ground. With the help of one of the pit droids, the medics lifted Luke’s body out of the shattered cockpit and onto the stretcher. Mara reached the wreck and bent over his prone form. Even at this distance, Thrawn saw Luke lift a hand and reach for her. He was still alive. Relief stabbed into Thrawn just as sharply as shock had when Luke’s fighter had gone down. 

One of the medics drew Mara away as a medical speeder pulled up, doors unfolding like a desert beetle. They carefully slid the stretcher onto the speeder and whisked Luke away. 

“Sir?” Commander Hammerly, again. “We’ve confirmed the death of pilot Bolton Haskar—” 

Saber Four. Something had gone very wrong with Saber Four’s Defender, and it was imperative that they discover the cause. Hammerly began to describe the disintegration of the Defender, the officers who had witnessed the event having already worked out a rough analysis of the crash. She had been joined by those officers and several members of the racecourse staff. All of them looked to him for direction. 

He glimpsed Mara through the bustle around him, standing alone on the tarmac, shivering. Something twisted in his chest. He should go to her—Luke would have wanted him to go to her—but then another pit crew droid rolled up to its supervisor, chattering in binary. The chief droid bent its long body and began to translate the report on the condition of the wrecked Defenders. 

The next time he saw Mara, Eli was beside her, his jacket wrapped around her shoulders, offering her a water bulb. “Admiral? Sir?” Commander Fel hurried up, face damp with sweat and pinched in anguish, and Thrawn turned away. 

It was hard to gauge how much time had passed. A new series of demonstration flights was taking place overhead. The fires had been extinguished, literally and figuratively, and a removal crew was lifting the wreckage of Luke’s Defender onto the bed of a speeder truck. The officer’s deck had returned to its position hovering above the stands, Tarkin and his sycophants watching the demonstrations as though nothing had happened. 

Arihnda appeared at his side. 

“It’s time to go, Admiral. The speeder is here to take you to the medical center.” She drew his attention to a small, two-passenger airspeeder waiting on the tarmac. Eli was helping Mara into one of the seats. The other was his, if he left now. 

“I’ll make sure everything’s taken care of here,” Arihnda said. “Go.” 

“Thank you, Arihnda.” 

Mara was already hunched against the speeder door on the other end of the backseat, huddled in Eli’s jacket, her face turned away. They didn’t speak on the way to the medical center. He leaned forward slightly, eyes on the blur of the city through the window without really seeing it. 

Luke was still in intensive care when they arrived at Sartinaynian City Imperial Medical Center. The intake droid—a white protocol droid with a droning voice—informed them that they would have to wait until the procedures had been finished and a medic was available to speak to them, and no, they couldn’t see the patient until he had been moved to a recovery room. 

Thrawn could feel a muscle twitch in his jaw. Crossing his arms, he stalked a short distance from the protocol droid. He heard Mara follow him across the room, and he cast a sideways glance in her direction. 

His eyes caught on the bloody handprint that stained the front of her blouse, right above her heart. “Can you still feel Luke’s pain?” 

She shook her head. “He went into a healing trance, after—after he saw me—down in the track.” 

He was relieved that she was no longer in the grip of her panic, but he didn’t like the numb, hollow look on her face that had replaced it. Eli must have given her something to clean off the tear tracks and smeared makeup, and she looked pale and washed-out in the bright, flat light of the medical center. 

“You sensed the crash before it happened.” 

She hesitated, then nodded. “I just knew something was about to go wrong. Luke must have felt it too, but everything happened so quickly…” 

Thrawn was certain if they checked the TIE’s black box, it would show that Luke had attempted to swerve out of the way of the falling debris, moments _before_ the other Defender had come apart. But he hadn’t been fast enough, or his Defender hadn’t responded in time—or he had only maneuvered his ship just far enough to escape death, not far enough to prevent his ship from crashing. 

Knowing the limits—and dangers—of his companions’ abilities was a useful lesson. While he couldn’t deny the power that a Force user could wield, Thrawn found it an infuriating factor, too unreliable to be accounted for in tactical planning. 

“He isn’t going to die,” Mara said, but her brow furrowed and she continued, less certainly, “I don’t think so. There was just—so much pain and… the cockpit was on fire and I could feel him panicking.” Luke’s fear and pain had driven her into a frenzied panic as well, abandoning all of her fastidious self-control. 

Looking down at her again, he realized that her heels had gone missing and she stood in her bare feet, the white floor smeared with blood where she had stepped. 

“Mara—what happened to your shoes?” 

She looked down, a bewildered expression on her face. “Oh—I took them off. I can run faster without them.” 

Shredding her feet in the process. Thrawn took a step forward and scooped her up in his arms.

“Don’t—” she protested, attempting to twist away. 

“Your feet need to be cleaned and bandaged before you can stand on them again,” he said sharply. “I will not have you damage yourself any further.”

She settled against him without further protest. 

With a pointed look, he summoned a nearby nurse. “Do you have an empty examination room?” 

The nurse—who appeared to recognize his uniform or at least had some respect for rank—led them down the hall to an empty room and left them alone when Thrawn dismissed her. 

He placed Mara on an examination table and retrieved the tools he would need from the medical supplies in the room’s cabinets. Mara tracked his hands as he removed his gloves and tossed them on the table beside the tray of supplies, but her gaze was glassy, unfocused. Taking her ankle in a hand, he lifted her foot, bending her knee so that he could examine it. The soles of her feet were black with dirt from the tarmac and sticky with blood from multiple tears and scrapes. 

Dressing her feet was a procedure that he could have left in the hands of any medical droid in the facility, but Thrawn didn’t want anyone else touching her. Mara was _his_ —his to comfort and protect. 

He cleaned her feet, first with soap and then with an antiseptic wash. Mara was quiet except for a few quick intakes of breath whenever he worked a particularly stubborn piece of gravel out of her skin. Luke would have calmed her with a soothing stream of empty words—but Luke wasn’t here. 

Mara sighed as he slathered bacta salve along her instep, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. There was a numbing agent in the bacta that would allow her to stand without pain, though he would insist that she keep off her feet for the next few days. 

She had lovely feet, he thought, and kissed the top of her foot. He looked up at her soft gasp, but her expression was unreadable, eyes heavy and dark. Neither of them spoke. 

Starting with her left foot, he pressed a flat bandage along the sole and then wrapped a long cloth strip over the arch and heel, looping it around her ankle and tucking in the end to secure it. Then, the right. When he was finished, he released her foot and straightened, cleaning off his hands with a sanitizing wipe. 

Before he could tidy away the pile of bandages and tubes of bacta resting on the examination table beside her, Mara reached for him, pulling his head down and crushing his mouth to hers. 

He drew in a quick breath, his shoulders tensing at the unexpected way all his nerves woke at the touch of her lips. He was shocked at how quickly his body responded to her, arousal shooting up his spine and stiffening his cock. It was hard not to push back, to reach for her and take her mouth with abandon. 

Digging his fingers roughly into her hair, he pulled it free of its elaborate up-do, pins clattering across the floor. He muffled her moans with his mouth, tangling his fingers deep into her hair and tugging it sharply—over and over—as he kissed her. 

Pressed close to her, he could smell the smoke and engine oil that clung to her skin and hair, and under that, the sharp metallic smell of blood. Luke’s blood. 

Breaking the kiss, he tightened his grip on her hair and wrenched her head back so that he could see her face, his eyes narrowed to red slits. Bright strands that had slipped free of his fist fell loose around her face. Her mouth gaped as she panted, lipstick smeared at the edges. 

He knew she had the power to manipulate arousal, and the thought flickered across his mind now—but when he looked into her eyes, wide and glassy, all he saw was something lost and beseeching. A plea. He could answer it. 

She released a breathy whine. “Csan’r…csan’r, ttis’ah.” _Keeper. Please._

“Mar.” _Yes,_ he growled as his hand flew to the fastening of his trousers. He let go of her hair to pull his cock free, his hand flying over the shaft in three rough, swift strokes. 

Mara squirmed to the edge of the table, lifting up her hips as he slid his hands under her skirt and pulled down her underwear, cautious when he reached her bandaged feet. She shifted closer as he rucked up her skirt. Another time, and he might have teased her for her impatience. 

He wasn’t interested in drawing things out now. She bit back a cry as he grasped her hips and thrust into her. Gripping his shoulders, her legs wrapped around his waist, ankles hooked at the small of his back. 

She wasn’t as wet as he liked—the angle wasn’t ideal—but there was something about the act that overrode any discomfort. Something primal that pounded through his veins and burned up his spine. It had been a long time—a very long time—since he had engaged in this sort of desperate, frantic, life-affirming _fucking._

Her mouth, hot and insistent against his, was enough to drive out any thought of the clusterfuck he’d left behind on the racecourse—her cunt, tight around his cock, grounded him here, with her. 

It didn’t take long until he came in a bright white rush, his whole body jerking and a groan wringing out of his throat between clenched teeth. He could feel Mara shaking against him, caught in her own pleasure, face pressed against his shoulder to muffle her cries.

He sagged forward, a hand flat on the examination table on either side of her hips. She wound her arms around his neck and pressed her face to the heavy wool of his dress uniform. He could still feel tremors running down her legs as she clung to him. 

They both took a moment to catch their breath before disentangling. Mara retrieved her underwear, tossed haphazardly onto the examination table, and pulled them on, scooting back and letting her skirt fall down over her knees again. Thrawn straightened himself as well, smoothing his hands down the front of his uniform as he examined her. 

An errant pin gleamed in her hair, the locks bunched and tangled around it. He gently worked it loose. Mara held still, watching him out of the corner of her eye as he placed it on the table beside the small pile of bloodied gravel he’d cleaned out of her feet.

She took a breath and looked up at him through her eyelashes. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have fallen apart like that.” 

Then she fell into the formality of a Court supplicant, her neck bending forward; drawing reassurance from a custom familiar to her. “Please accept my apologies for my behavior.” 

“I accept.” He took her face in his hands, lifting it, thumbs stroking across her cheekbones.

“Ch’eo bun’is.” He rolled the pet name over his tongue, and watched with satisfaction as her lips parted and warmth colored her cheeks. “You shouldn’t have had to shoulder so much pain. Any punishment will be pleasurable for us all.” 

She took another breath and nodded. 

“You will apologize to Eli as well.” 

“Mar, csan'r,” she said. The sound of the title—her _keeper_ —was warm as an ember in his chest. He let a faint smile touch his lips. 

“Good—we will handle the fallout, whatever it may be.” 

There was a polite tap at the door. After making sure he wasn’t in complete disarray, Thrawn went to the door. Arihnda stood on the other side. 

She held out a pair of simple slip-on shoes in Mara’s size. “For her feet.” A sympathetic wince crossed her face as she handed them over. “The heels were...unsalvageable.” 

“Thank you,” Thrawn said, offering her a thin, worn smile to express his gratitude at her appreciation. He stood aside so that she could join them in the exam room. 

He hoped the room didn’t smell too strongly of his and Mara’s… activities. As a Chiss, his olfactory receptors weren’t as sensitive to odors as a human’s were. If it bothered her, Arihnda didn’t let it show on her face. 

Mara had straightened her skirt and sat primly on the exam table as though he hadn’t fucked her there only minutes before. Her hair still hung loose and tousled around her shoulders. Standing in front of her, he lifted first one foot, then the other, carefully sliding the shoes on over her bandages. Arihnda waited until he had finished. 

“You lost this as well,” Arihnda told Mara, holding up a single golden earring. The earring was constructed of a series of interlaced rings, like an archaic armillary sphere in miniature. 

“Lady I’lisi sends her regards,” Arihnda continued after Mara had thanked her for saving the earring. “She wants the Grand Admiral to know that she would be happy to offer her assistance if he had need of anything.” 

Mara snorted as she tilted her head to rehook the earring. “Lady I’lisi has a fetish for alien cock,” she said, flicking a look at Thrawn. “I wouldn’t even give her the time of day.” 

Arihnda choked back a laugh. There had been an undercurrent of hostility between the two women back when Mara had been a courtier—Arihnda had been cold, Mara had been cruel—but over the last year it had eased into a grudging, if at times wary, mutual respect. 

When Arihnda recovered, she continued: “Most of the Moffs seem to have dismissed Mara’s behavior—” She waved a hand, her tone ironic: “companions are naturally high-strung and hysterical, of course.” 

Mara’s mouth twisted. “Of course.” 

Arihnda acknowledged her resentment with a slight incline of her head. They were all aware that it would be better for Mara to take the full brunt of the Moff’s scorn rather than let it fall upon him. 

“Tarkin?” Thrawn asked. 

“Tarkin is more concerned with the failure of the Defender line,” Arihnda said. “He hasn’t officially withdrawn his support—not yet.” 

It would take weeks—months—of damage control to salvage the disaster on the racecourse that day. 

“And Luke?” Mara asked softly. 

“All I could get out of the medics was that he’s responding well to treatment,” Arihnda said. She turned back to Thrawn. “The chief medic is ready to speak with you whenever you’re ready.” 

The chief medic was a tall human man with an arrogant set to his mouth. He listed off Luke’s injuries in an expressionless tone: concussion, broken leg, broken ribs, a fractured wrist, soft tissue injuries, and his hands—his hands had been badly damaged. For some reason, Luke hadn’t been wearing his flying gloves, which would have given them some protection against the electrical fire in the cockpit. 

“We have a new Kaminoian technique to rebuild damaged tissue and skin,” he said with obvious pride. “We’ll have him good as new.” 

“I’m afraid he hasn’t regained consciousness,” the chief medic continued. “Though you’re welcome to sit with him. We’ve moved him to a private room.” 

The floor where the medical center’s most prized patients were treated was quiet and luxurious. The monitoring equipment next to the medical bed in Luke’s room was state of the art, and the bed even looked comfortable. Two full-sized armchairs had been placed on either side of the bed, with light refreshments on a side table. The lights were comfortably low. 

Luke lay still as a corpse, only the slight rise and fall of his chest and the steady hum of the monitoring equipment indicating that he was still alive. A nurse had dressed him in a medical robe that covered up the bandages along his side and tucked him under a blanket. The outline of a brace on his left leg could be seen under the blanket. His hands were encased in a set of cylindrical medical devices that functioned like miniature bacta tanks. 

Once the door slid shut, Mara spoke. “If you want to speak with him, I can bring him out of the healing trance for a short while.” 

“I would.” 

Mara moved to Luke’s side. Thrawn circled the bed and sat on the chair opposite. He placed a hand on Luke’s arm as she ducked her head and whispered in his ear. Thrawn didn’t catch the phrase she spoke, but whatever it was, it worked immediately. Luke opened his eyes, squinting in the light. His mouth moved and he made a garbled sound. 

“You’re safe,” Thrawn said. He wanted to whisper words of comfort in Cheunh, but he knew that Luke would be more responsive to his native tongue. “You’re in a med center. There was an accident.” 

“Your TIE crashed,” Mara snarled, drawing back. There were tears standing in her eyes, though they didn’t fall. Thrawn flicked a glance up at her; a warning. She glared back. He understood her helpless anger—but it was unproductive, a distraction. 

“Did I…scare… you?” Luke’s voice was thick and drug-muddled. “I’m sorry.” 

“The medics say that you’re responding well to their treatments,” Thrawn said. 

Luke’s shoulders flexed and his brow furrowed when he realized that he couldn’t lift his arms. “Can’t move mm—hands.” 

“You weren’t wearing your gloves in the cockpit,” Mara hissed. 

“Oh,” Luke blinked. “That was stupid. Must have…wanted to feel the ship…with hands.” His arms twitched again and he frowned, his face crumpling into dismay. 

Thrawn touched his cheek. “All will be well, Ch’eo bun’is.” 

Luke’s face cleared. Mara took a breath and nodded, a little determined bob of acquiescence. 

“Mmkay. Gonna sleep now.” 

Luke closed his eyes. Mara leaned over him again, palm pressed to his temple, her own eyes falling shut. Thrawn watched her face go tight with concentration as she guided him back into the healing trance, while Luke’s face went soft and slack. 

“Come,” he said when she opened her eyes and swayed, nearly collapsing onto Luke.

She came to him and he pulled her into his lap, guiding her head to rest against his shoulder. After a moment, she relaxed, curling into him, eyes fluttering closed as he stroked her hair from her temple. The warm weight of her body against his eased the knot that rested in his own chest. 

“All will be well,” he promised again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Cheunh
> 
> Cssin's to von'ehn — cut the connection.   
> Nan'ei nah tuzir k'ir sir ten. Nan'ei — there’s nothing we can do for him. Nothing.   
> Vun'csut, ch’eo bun’is — control, my gift.   
> Csan’r, ttis’ah — keeper, please  
> Mar, csan'r — yes, keeper


End file.
